


Morse

by drpepperdiva91



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Everybody Dies, Fire, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-18
Updated: 2014-10-18
Packaged: 2018-02-21 15:57:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,679
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2473982
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/drpepperdiva91/pseuds/drpepperdiva91
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Amazing how fire exposes our priorities.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Morse

**Author's Note:**

  * For [pininglock](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pininglock/gifts).



> Inspired by a post on tumblr, by pininglock. The story is just a small tad bit different from the prompt, but this post was 100% my inspiration for the entire thing. Prompt as follows:
> 
> "can u imagine john and sherlock being trapped in seperate rooms and there’s like a fire going on or something and they cant escape or communicate and both of them are desperately trying to find a way to contact/get to each other before they die and finally, at the last second, john hears sherlock tapping “i love you” in morse code through the walls"
> 
> http://pininglock.tumblr.com/post/100294680168/can-u-imagine-john-and-sherlock-being-trapped-in

_Damn this,_ Sherlock thought, slowly coming back to the surface, swimming through a mist of burning pain in his throat and nostrils. He registered the gag in his mouth just moments before he opened his eyes, details of his and John's abductions floating back to him while he took in the scene around him. 

_It was the cousin. Always something. And they took my phone._

They had been chasing a serial killer, who also happened to be a serial arsonist. Sherlock was sure- so irrefutably sure- that it had been the uncle. Until, of course, the charred corpse of the uncle's body turned up on the doorstep of 221B Baker Street that morning. He remembered peering down at the body, poor Mrs. Hudson whimpering in the background, something about "...and this early in the morning, too, some people just have no decency..." and John's hand, suddenly gripping his elbow with an urgency that surprised him. He heard two heavy footsteps, a rushed intake of air, felt the cool absence of John's hand falling away from him, and then nothing. _  
_

He cracked his eyes open and was immediately assaulted with the hazy burn of smoke in his eyes, making them water. It was pouring in from under the door and through the air vents, and the floor beneath him felt warm.

_In an upper level, then. Fire below me. Feel the door. Hot, fire outside. Look around, no windows, can't crawl through the air vent, too much smoke. Another door? No. Find John. Not in this room. John. Where is John? Below me, in the fire? No._

His shout of "John!" came out more like a muffled groan around the gag, but it was loud, and behind the roaring of the encroaching fire, he thought he might have heard a response from the other side of the wall he was crouched against. He shouted again, and  _there, yes, that was a person. John? Maybe._

He continued shouting, pressing his ear against the wall, covering his mouth and nose with his scarf while he listened. The smoke was quickly filling the room, the walls and floor getting hotter with each passing minute. 

_\---_

John slumped against the wall, one hand pressing his jumper firmly against his face, the other feeling desperately for a door. He had opened his eyes a minute or two ago, but the smoke was so thick, he couldn't make anything out past the gritty, drying burn that worked its way under his lids even once they were closed again. His breath came in slow, shallow puffs, while he pictured the irritation that even his shortest breaths were causing to the delicate pulmonary tissue in his chest. He choked, briefly, saliva pooling around the gag. John's lungs constricted and flinched inside him, begging him to give in and cough, but fought against the reflex, knowing he may not be able to stop once he started. He'd determined there were a few possibilities in this particular scenario, and none of them were looking particularly promising:

_1.) Sherlock wasn't kidnapped when I was, and I'm being used as bait. Again. Sherlock will find me. Again. Except Sherlock was with me when I was knocked out, so they probably took him too._

_2.) Sherlock is here, and will figure out how to escape, or already has and is sending help. Except he's probably been placed in a holding room like this, and I've already figured out that there are no exits. At least not that I can feel._

_3.) Sherlock is trapped, like I'm trapped. We're going to die, unless someone runs into a burning building, which is probably abandoned, to rescue us._

He was surprisingly calm, despite thinking that option three seemed the most likely at this point. He became well-acquainted with near-death experiences, both as a soldier in Afghanistan and as a blogger to the World's Only Consulting Detective, and had learned to take them in stride. If he was going to die, he was going to die. Panic wouldn't solve anything, except maybe make him die faster. He would either find a way out, or he would hope to die of smoke inhalation before getting burned alive.

He was pondering which would be better, smoke inhalation or burns, when he heard a strangled-sounding moan from the other side of the wall. Even over the crackle of the fire outside the door and the heat that was making him sweaty and nauseous, he could recognize that deep voice anywhere. 

_Sherlock. He's right there. Oh thank God, he's alive- wait. Shit. Fuck. No. NO!_

So much for not panicking.

He shouted back, his voice rough and raw from the smoke, and his sounds distorted by the wall between them and the gag pushing his tongue back.  _There's got to be another way. Another... oh, he's Sherlock Holmes, he'll know Morse._

\---

Sherlock shouted again, the smoke ruining his throat. He tasted the coppery tell of blood in his mouth, but wasn't sure if it was from his irritated pharynx or his lungs. They wouldn't manage to stay conscious much longer, he was sure. His fingers and cheeks were tingling with the lack of oxygen, and his head swam. The heat was growing heavier and thicker around him, dry and menacing. Suddenly, he felt pounding on the wall directly behind his head. It wasn't frenzied, terrified beating, however. He realized, after John paused to repeat the word once more, that it was Morse Code. 

_Brilliant, John._

He listened intently, his mind supplying the letters for him as John tapped. 

 _S-H-L-K_ -?

 _J-O-H-N,_ Sherlock answered, equally relieved to hear him and horrified with the confirmation that they were both trapped with no means of escape.

_H-E-L-P-?_

_N-O---M-O-B-L_

_T-R-A-P-D_

_Y-E-S_

_\---_

John squeezed his eyes shut harder, the tears on his face less from the smoke now than they were from the realization that they weren't going to make it out. He could feel the signs of fatal smoke inhalation, the fluid building up in his lungs and his trachea swelling closed. His knees were beginning to blister where he was kneeling on the floor, hands pressed to the same wall that Sherlock was resting on less than a foot away. In the far corner of the room, part of the floor had fallen through, and the flames were licking their way up the walls. His sweat was evaporating nearly as quickly as he generated it, and his muscles began to cramp at the lack of oxygen. His pounding on the wall was growing weaker with every letter, as was Sherlock's. Neither of them had much time left, and he was suddenly overwhelmed with a combination of regret at never having revealed his feelings for his flatmate-turned-best-friend and a distinct feeling of happiness with the last few years of his life. They may not have been together in the sense that Mrs. Hudson and Mycroft implied, but they were close in their own way, and John had to admit, he was as much in love with their dangerous lifestyle as he was with Sherlock himself.

Somehow, despite the longing and the fighting and the state of their kitchen, he was happier than he'd ever imagined being.

_I've got to tell him. He's got to know._

\---

Sherlock fought against the urge to choke, desperately struggling to keep his trachea open a few minutes longer as he tapped weakly to John.

 _T-H-A-N-K---U_ , John hammered to Sherlock with shaking hands.

_Oh, Christ. John thinks we're going to die. He's right. Oh, God. Not like this. Arson, boring, and too soon. Too soon. John._

_W-H-A-T-?_ he answered, unsure of why John was thanking him, considering it was clearly Sherlock's fault they were both about to suffocate to death.

_O-U-R---L-I-F-E---T-H-N-K---Y-O-U_

_M-Y---F-A-U-L-_

John cut him off, banging as hard as he could against the wall to keep Sherlock from finishing his thought.

_N-O---I---C-H-O-S-E---U---C-H-O-S-E---U-S_

Sherlock bit back a sob, not wanting to waste any of what he was sure were his final breaths. His mind was swimming, and he was sure John's was as well.  _Not long, now. Not long. I'm so sorry, John._

_S-R-Y_

_N-O_

John's response was rapid and sure; Sherlock was not to apologize for this, or for anything else. Before Sherlock could think of an answer, John was tapping again, weaker and slower. Sherlock's mind fought to keep up with the letters through his oxygen-deprived fog.

_L-O-V-E---U_

_Oh, God, John. Christ. Why did it take this? Why do we have to burn alive for this to happen?_ Sherlock worked up enough energy to answer, his hand heavy and arm sinking lower even as he knocked on the wall.

 _L-O-V-E---U---J-O-H-N---A-L-W-A_ Sherlock managed before his limbs were too heavy to lift. He was choking now, sputtering around the gag, unable to keep his scarf to his face. His lungs burned nearly as much as the flesh of his feet where flames where dancing around his toes. He felt his body shake with the force of his coughs, ribs screaming and diaphragm spasming. And then, nothing.

\---

John's arms were heavy, but he kept rapping his knuckles agains the wall, even after Sherlock stopped answering him.

_L-O-V-E---U_

_L-O-V-E_

_L-V_

_L-V_

He could feel himself being tugged away from reality by the heat against his back, the searing pain in his legs. His trousers were on fire; he was burning. His flesh was burning, but he couldn't smell it any longer for the thick, sooty mucous funning down his nose and sinuses. He thought dimly, that maybe he would scream if he could get any air past his epiglottis. He spasmed and choked, his limps acting of their own accord and flinching away from the fire that slowly began to engulf him.

His last thought was surprisingly similar to what crossed his mind when he had been shot in Afghanistan and lay bleeding in the unforgiving desert sand. Just before his mind gave in to the blinding pain and hypoxia, he thought of Sherlock.

_Please, God, let him live._


End file.
